


blood in the cut

by WeeBeastie



Series: after all verse [6]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Not quite crack fic but close, old pirate husbands, piercing kink, sex because there's always sex in what I write, witty banter and flirty strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 18:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10882539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: take my arm, break it in halfsay something, do it soon, it's too quiet in this roomi need noise,need some blood in the cut





	blood in the cut

**Author's Note:**

> Another part in the ‘after all’ verse, which will make more sense if you read at least the first part or two before you read this one. It’s probably kind of telling that I came up with the idea for this part while a wee bit drunk. It’s not quite crack fic, but it’s pretty close!
> 
> Title and lyrics in the description borrowed from “Blood in the Cut” by K.Flay, which I’m currently kind of obsessed with.
> 
> Thanks as always to Elle for inspiring and encouraging me! Thanks also to the internet at large for helping me learn everything I ever needed to know about piercing someone’s nipple. Very…informative.
> 
> Uh, did I forget to mention that bit? Right. So, this fic involves old Silver getting his nipple pierced (again, I’ll remind you I was drunk when this plot bunny showed up) and there’s some blood and pain and stuff associated with that. Not too much but I thought I should warn y'all anyway. Also Silver maybe kinda enjoys the pain a little? That will have to be explored more later.
> 
> One final thing! This is written entirely from Silver’s POV, which is new for me, so be gentle. I love my trash prince but he is a beast to write for. <3

Silver is sitting alone in de Lioncourt’s tavern, having gotten just a little sidetracked on his way home from the market, when a stranger sits down next to him at the bar and almost immediately strikes up a conversation.

“I like your tattoos,” the man says, fortunately enough in English, since Silver’s French is still so terrible despite his best efforts.

Silver looks over, taking in this stranger and his intensely blue eyes, his scruffy beard, the multitude of tattoos he has himself. Silver smiles, charmingly. “Thank you. I like yours as well,” he says, then holds out his hand. “Jean.”

“Max. Mad Max to some, but usually just Max,” the man says, his full lips quirking into a crooked smile. He has a broad lower class accent that reminds Silver of the place he was born. They shake hands, Max’s gaze lingering on the tattoos on Silver’s knuckles.

“Mad Max, I like it,” Silver says, chuckling. “So what brings you to this dark little tavern in the middle of nowhere, Mad Max?” he asks, taking a long swallow of his rum. He should be getting home to Flint soon, but Mad Max seems like he could be a person worth knowing.

“Just passing through, I s’pose. I've a room rented upstairs,” Max says casually, then eyes the red-haired mermaid tattooed on Silver’s chest. She's peeking out of Silver’s forest green shirt just enough to be scowling right at Max. “What about you?” he asks.

“I live around here, on my cousin’s farm,” Silver says. He and Flint have kept up the ruse of being cousins for some time now, despite Silver being fairly sure no one believes them or even really cares what they actually are to one another. One of the benefits of living in French territory, Silver has discovered, is that people generally don't give a fuck what (or who) you do in your spare time.

“A farm? I would've taken you for a sailor,” Max says, eyes roving over Silver, appraising him all over again.

“I used to be,” Silver allows, then signals the bartender for another round. De Lioncourt, a blonde, twitchy sort of fellow, brings two cups of strong black rum over and Silver pays for them both.

“Thanks, that's awful nice of you,” Max says, taking a long swallow of the rum and sighing with pleasure.

Silver nods, surreptitiously eyeing Max up again. On closer inspection, not only does Max have tattoos and an earring in each ear, he's also got a ring in his nose, right in the center like a bull. Silver is immediately intrigued. “Did you do that yourself?” he asks, gesturing. He's been in the tavern for a while already, and has always been one to carry on conversations with interesting strangers, especially while a little drunk.

“Aye, I did,” Max says with that same crooked grin. “Did some of my own tattoos as well. Sometimes when I stay in one place for a while I make a little extra money that way, see, and I practice on myself.”

“Oh,” Silver says, considering. He strokes a hand over his beard idly, remembering a man he had a torrid affair with in the years between when Madi left him and when he found Flint. The man had a ring in each nipple, and Silver can remember being unable to keep his hands - or his mouth - off them. The memory has, understandably, stuck with him, and now it's giving him ideas. “Will you still be here tomorrow? I've got to head home before my cousin comes looking for me, but there may be something you can do for me vis-a-vis putting a new hole in my body.”

“Sure thing,” Max says, looking intrigued and more than a little amused at Silver’s bluntness.

Silver nods, draining his rum and picking up his crutch so he can leave. “Good. I'll see you tomorrow then, Mad Max,” he says with a grin, then leaves the tavern, Junior getting up from where he's been waiting patiently outside and plodding along at Silver’s heel. “There’s a good lad,” Silver says, idly patting Junior as they walk together. “Sorry you can't go in there with me anymore. De Lioncourt doesn't like dogs, and you've gotten too big to sneak in like we used to do. People tend to notice a one-legged man and a dog the size of a small horse anyway, and together we're quite the spectacle,” he says fondly.

When Silver arrives home, Flint is waiting for him, wearing that look that says he knows Silver has been wasting time and money at the tavern and he's not too pleased with him for it. Silver smiles genially and shuts the door behind himself and Junior, leaning in close to Flint to kiss him soundly in greeting. “Sorry I'm late,” he says, shrugging off his coat, then hanging it up and making a beeline for the kitchen. He’ll feed Flint, that always placates him.

“You were at the tavern,” Flint says, standing barefoot in the doorway of the kitchen. He never wears shoes in the house, and it makes him look so soft and vulnerable, Silver sometimes gets to feeling almost overwrought about it all. It's such a small thing, something he's fairly sure Flint himself isn't even really aware of, but Silver can't help noticing and feeling deeply about it.

“I was, yes,” Silver says when he snaps out of his reverie. “I stopped in for one drink because it was hot out, and one turned into a few, plus one more when a very interesting stranger by the name of Mad Max sat down next to me,” Silver says, tying on an apron and rustling around the kitchen for things to make supper with.

“Mad Max, really? Surely you can do better than that,” Flint says, folding his arms over his chest. He's wearing an old threadbare white shirt that's open at his throat, and Silver can see his second favorite patch of freckles, the one right over Flint’s breastbone (his favorite is on Flint’s left thigh).

“Now, now. You know me well enough to know when I'm spinning you a story and when I'm telling you the truth,” Silver says with affection, holding a small, sweet tomato in the palm of one hand and peeling it with the knife in his other hand. He's done this so many times he doesn't even have to look at his hands while he does it, so he looks at Flint instead. “I’m going to go see Mad Max again tomorrow, you should come with me.”

“I will,” Flint says, meeting his gaze steadily. “What are you going to see him for?” he asks, almost as an afterthought, his eyes on Silver’s clever hands now.

“Ah, well. That's a good question, for which I have a regrettably dubious answer. You might not like this idea very much, but I think if you give me the chance to explain myself you'll see that, in time--”

“The point, please, John.”

“Right. Mad Max does tattoos and pierces people’s body parts, and he's practiced on himself so obviously it's a safe bet he's good at it by now, and I was thinking I could...avail myself of his services,” Silver says, glancing up at Flint and watching in amusement as his brow furrows, his white eyebrows knitting together in consternation. He's seen that look countless times before, that ‘John Silver, what the fuck are you on about’ look.

“You want a new tattoo?” Flint asks, his sea-green eyes roaming over Silver. “Where? And what of? Not that you need my permission of course, I'm just curious.”

“Not a tattoo,” Silver says, biting his lower lip to keep from grinning. He loves playing little games like this with Flint, partly because it sometimes riles Flint up, which tends to end well for Silver.

“You want to get your other ear pierced?” Flint guesses. “Or-- you want to get something else pierced,” he says with certainty in his voice, because he knows Silver that well. It gives Silver a happy little thrill.

“Very good. I was thinking it might be fun to get a ring in my nipple,” Silver says in an exaggeratedly upbeat tone, speaking quickly in the hopes that Flint won't really hear what he's said.

“ _What_ ,” Flint intones lowly, staring at him like he thinks he's lost his mind. He did hear him, then.

“I knew a man - well, _knew him_ , if you know what I mean, thoroughly and repeatedly - who had both done and it was very attractive. He also said it made him more...sensitive,” Silver says, eyeing Flint to see his reaction to that piece of information. 

“Did you now,” Flint says, his expression slowly changing. He stalks up to the kitchen table like a predatory animal, bracing both hands on the tabletop and leaning forward and down into Silver’s personal space. A part of Silver has always enjoyed how much taller Flint is than him, and how often he takes advantage of it.

Silver feels himself starting to get hard the way he always does when Flint looks at him like that, with his expression reading partway between ‘fuck you’ and ‘I’ll fuck you.’ “Mmhm. He was a very enjoyable person to know, I'm sure you understand my meaning. So it's almost a selfless thing for me to do, really. I'll be more sensitive, which is good not just for me but also for you,” he says, pitching his voice low and half-blinking at Flint like he does when he's trying to seduce him. It seems to be working, if the flush creeping up Flint’s neck from his chest is any indication.

“Selfless, yes, of course,” Flint says, not sounding convinced at all in spite of his visible reaction. His eyes are fixed on Silver’s mouth. “Well, it is your body, to do with what you will. I'll go with you to make sure this Mad Max person knows what he's doing,” he says, leaning in even closer until he and Silver are sharing breath. “I won't have him ruining one of my favorite parts of you,” he rumbles, then kisses Silver with such ferocity that Silver accidentally crushes the tomato in his hand, supper entirely forgotten.

 

\---

 

The next evening they make their way to de Lioncourt’s tavern together, Silver hearing himself rambling on while Flint stays mostly quiet. Junior trots between them, drawing almost as many curious looks as Silver.

“...so in the end it'll be just like piercing my ear, I think, except in a different place. And it might hurt more. I suppose I'll find out,” Silver says as they arrive at the tavern, feeling a rush of excitement and dread the way he always does when he's about to do something a little dangerous.

Junior settles down to wait for them outside and they go into the tavern together, Silver immediately spotting Mad Max at the bar. He stands out in a crowd. “There he is,” Silver says, pointing him out to Flint.

“Him, really? Are you sure you want to do this?” Flint asks, and it's clear from his tone that he doesn't particularly trust this Mad Max person even though he hasn't met him yet.

“I’m certain,” Silver says, though he isn't. He waves at Max from across the tavern, going over to him. “Mad Max, my friend, there you are.”

“Jean, good t’ see you again,” Max says, then stands up and eyes Flint, practically drinking him in. It's clear he likes what he's seeing. “This must be your...cousin,” he says, and Silver can practically hear the wheels in his head turning.

“Jacques,” Flint says, shaking Max’s hand and frowning only slightly. It would seem he can sense Max’s thought process too.

“Our mothers were sisters, bless their kind and beautiful souls. We each take after our respective fathers,” Silver explains unnecessarily. He's well aware that he and Flint don't look related at all, so sometimes he tries to embellish the flimsy ruse with plausible details.

“Right,” Max says, wisely not prying further. “Well, I'll take you up to my room, then,” he says, leading them up the narrow staircase at the back of the tavern. Silver follows Max, and Flint follows Silver, close enough to whisper to him without Max overhearing.

“I actually look just like my mother,” Flint intones in Silver’s ear.

“You do not. I can't imagine a woman with your face, she'd be so beautiful she'd never get anything done,” Silver whispers back, and Flint smacks him in the arm none too gently.

Max leads them up the stairs to a dark, cramped room that's little more than one chair and a mattress on the floor. Silver doesn't miss that Flint has to duck just to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling.

“Cozy,” Flint says dryly, sitting down in the room’s only chair while Silver sits on the bed, such as it is, and Max starts rummaging in a bag, getting his tools ready.

“Now, what exactly was you wanting me to do? I don't believe we ever reached an accord,” Max says as he takes out a needle and a small silver hoop. He rummages in the bag some more, eventually producing a small clean-looking cloth and a little vial of some kind of salve.

“A ring, through here,” Silver says, shrugging out of his shirt and gesturing to the left side of his chest.

“Excellent choice,” Max says, then turns to smile widely at Flint, all full lips and shining blue eyes. “Anything I can do for you, too, while you're here?” he asks, and if Silver isn't mistaken, Max is trying to flirt with Flint.

“He’s happy with what he already has,” Silver says, rather more sharply than he intended, before Flint can reply. He thinks he sees Flint smirk for a moment.

“Understood,” Max says curtly, then sits on the floor facing Silver. “This is going to hurt like a motherfucker, but to look at you I'd expect you already know a good deal about pain,” he says, holding the needle over the flame of a nearby candle for a moment. “It might also bleed a fair bit, so be ready for that. I’ll count to three, and on three I'll do it. Take a deep breath. Don't breathe out til I've got the needle in,” he says, glancing at Silver’s face.

Silver can feel his heart pounding away in his chest, but he's ready, even for pain and blood. He looks up, locking eyes with Flint over Max’s shoulder as Max prepares.

“One. Two.” Silver feels a white hot lightning bolt go through the left side of his chest, simultaneous burning pain and deep, throbbing pleasure coursing through him. It's like nothing he's ever felt, and is not at all the same as getting his ear pierced, despite what he said before.

“Fuck, you said you'd do it on three,” Silver pants as Max nimbly pushes the needle through and follows it with the jewelry, wiping blood off Silver’s chest with the cloth.

“Yeah, I lied. Hurts less if you don't have time to tense up and brace yourself, see,” he says, spreading some of the salve on Silver’s chest with dubiously clean fingers. “There you are, all done. Now don't touch it too much, and don't go letting anyone else touch it neither,” he says, glancing at the mermaid tattooed on Silver’s chest, then looking pointedly at Flint. The likeness is uncanny, Silver knows. “I’m sure you know how bad an infection could be,” Max is saying to Silver, “so keep it clean.”

“How long before it heals?” Silver asks, looking down at himself and admiring the new jewelry. It does look good on him, he thinks, and although it hurt he can already tell it will be worth it, if that rush of pleasure was any indication.

“Dunno really. A few months at least, maybe as much as a year,” Max says, shrugging. “But you seem like a tough old bastard to me, I bet you heal fast,” he jokes, handing Silver his shirt.

Silver thanks him and puts it on gingerly, glad he wore something loose. “How much do I owe you?” he asks, pushing himself up with his crutch and feeling only slightly lightheaded.

“No charge, mate, I like you. Both of you,” Max says, smiling at them and getting up from his position on the floor.

“Well, thank you,” Silver says as he and Flint head for the door.

“You change your mind on me doing something for you, Jacques, you let me know,” Max says to Flint with a little wink.

Flint doesn't reply, apparently opposed to even dignifying that obvious come-on with a response. Silver follows him down the stairs and out of the tavern where Junior falls into step with them, his tail wagging at the sight of his two favorite people.

“So, how does it feel? Did it hurt?” Flint asks, looking sideways at Silver. He looks understandably curious.

“You remember what it felt like when you got your ear pierced? It was like that, except in my nipple. Of course it hurt,” Silver says, pulling an admittedly childish face at Flint.

“Did it _only_ hurt? Because I was watching your face when it happened and I must say it didn't look like you were altogether suffering too terribly,” Flint says, not looking at Silver.

“...no, it didn't only hurt,” Silver admits, getting distracted by the feel of his shirt brushing against the new piercing as he walks. “But I suspect you were asking me a question you already knew the answer to.”

They arrive home, Flint holding the gate and then the front door open for Silver, being even more gentlemanly than usual. Silver lets Flint mother him a little for the duration of the evening, pretending to mind it more than he actually does.

 

\---

 

A few nights later Silver finds himself howling in pain when moments before he was asleep, thrashing around and sitting up with one hand clutched to the left side of his bare chest.

“What is it, what's going on? Is it your leg?” Flint asks in the darkness, sitting up next to him. Silver has always envied his ability to snap instantly into full consciousness, unlike Silver himself, who tends to still feel half-asleep for some time after waking.

“No, not my leg. I must've rolled over and got the ring caught on something,” Silver says, touching his chest and then drawing his hand back. His fingers are wet. “...I think I'm bleeding.”

“Well, fuck,” Flint says, which just about sums it up for Silver. Flint gets out of bed and lights a candle on his nightstand, grabbing his own shirt off the floor and coming back to bed. He eyes Silver’s chest and makes a noise of sympathy, an ‘oh’ so soft that it almost makes Silver laugh. 

Silver looks down at himself, watching the deep red blood run sluggishly down his gleaming, tattooed skin. “I’ll have to be more careful,” he says, taking Flint’s shirt from him and dabbing the blood away from the piercing.

“Yes, more careful,” Flint agrees, his expression unreadable. He raises one hand like he wants to touch Silver’s chest but quickly lets it drop. Well. That's interesting.

“You like it, don't you. You thought it was a bad idea, but now you just want to touch it,” Silver says, slowly grinning at Flint and then throwing the bloodied shirt back on the floor.

“Go back to sleep,” Flint says, blowing out the candle and lying back down.

Silver just smirks to himself in the darkness and settles on his back with his arms behind his head, thinking that this new piercing is going to be even more fun than he'd previously imagined.

 

\---

 

A few weeks later Silver is outside in the front yard in the late afternoon, working with his shirt off. The piercing is healing very well, despite Flint’s misgivings and the middle of the night mishap early on. Silver has even started trying harder to goad Flint into touching it, since he can tell how much he wants to, but thus far he's been unsuccessful.

Silver hears someone walking down the road and looks up, pleased to see their young, easily flustered neighbor Claude. Time to have a little mostly-harmless fun. “Good morning, Claude!” he calls out, then frowns, knowing he's screwed that up somehow.

Claude looks up and stares, jaw comically dropping when he sees Silver and his new jewelry. He looks like he's about to say something but he suddenly trips and falls spectacularly, a cloud of dust rising around him.

“Claude! Is you hurting?” Silver asks in his broken French, grabbing his crutch and going through the front gate out to the road, taking Claude by the elbow and pulling him easily to his feet. The boy is already taller than Silver, but he's slender and weighs practically nothing.

“Thank you,” Claude says breathlessly, surprisingly enough in English. He has a strong French accent, but doesn't hesitate in speaking at all. “I don't know what happened,” he continues, his doe-like brown eyes wide, his cheeks flushed. “I must've tripped over my own feet.” His English is clearly leagues ahead of Silver’s French.

“You speak English?” Silver asks him, dumbfounded. “Why have you been letting me embarrass myself in French to you, then?” he demands, leaning on his crutch and folding his arms over his chest - carefully.

“Your cousin,” Claude says, flushing an even deeper red and having a hard time keeping his eyes off Silver’s bare chest. “He asked me to only speak French to you, to let you practice. You...are very bad,” he says, and sounds almost apologetic about it.

“Yes, I'm aware,” Silver mutters. He brushes some dirt off Claude’s shirt for him, sadistically enjoying how just that innocent touch of his hand makes the boy’s breath hitch. “Well, off you go, then. I'll see you later on,” Silver says, turning to go back through the gate into the front yard as Claude hurries awkwardly away. Silver catches sight of Flint on the front porch, leaning on the railing with his sleeves rolled up and a knowing smirk on his face. Damn him for being so attractive when he's been up to something.

Silver goes up the front steps to stand next to Flint on the porch, mirroring his pose and not looking at him. “You told Claude not to speak English to me,” he says accusingly.

“Yeah,” Flint confirms, squinting a little in the late afternoon sun.

“But he speaks English better than I speak French.”

“Yeah,” Flint confirms again. “That poor lad is clearly head-over-heels for you, and has been since the first time he saw you. I figured his attraction to you might wane a little if you couldn't really talk to him, but it would appear I was mistaken. As it is for myself as well, he's attracted to you in spite of the nonsense that comes out of your mouth.” He glances over at Silver, looking chagrined. “More importantly, though, you need the practice with your French. I made a similar request of all the neighbors when you first moved in with me, it's not just Claude.”

Silver nods, taking this all in. “I could get angry with you for going behind my back to the neighbors that way, but I think instead I'll just choose to retaliate by keeping my shirt off for the rest of the evening.” He leans a little closer to Flint, mindful of the fact that they're still outside and in full view of the aforementioned neighbors. “You know you're just _dying_ to touch it, James. Play with it. See what happens to the rest of me when you do,” he says lowly, carefully keeping his expression neutral.

Fling exhales hard through his nose and pushes away from the railing, walking a bit stiffly back inside the house. Silver grins and follows him, thinking about how much fun he's going to have driving Flint crazy. More so than he already does, anyway.

 

\---

 

A month later Silver is lying sprawled on the floral couch in the parlor, Flint on top of him, one knee pressing into Silver’s groin just enough to tease. Silver isn't one hundred percent sure how they got here, only that it's too hot outside and inside, there was wine and a spirited discussion about something-or-other (the right way to take one’s tea, maybe?), and now this. Pleasant, wonderful, life-affirming _this_.

Neither of them has a shirt on, but they're still wearing far too many clothes for Silver’s taste. “James, please,” he says, shifting restlessly underneath him. He follows Flint’s gaze to the shining ring in his nipple and grins. “C’mon. Touch it, please, I know you want to, I want you to,” he says breathlessly.

“I can't,” Flint says even as his fingers twitch. He so clearly _wants_ to, it makes Silver ache. “It wouldn't be good for you, and it might hurt.”

“Fucking do it already, I don't _care_ ,” Silver says, writhing beneath him. In his moments alone he's started exploring the piercing a bit himself, and all it's done is make him feel sexually frustrated and more than a little eager to get Flint’s hands (or preferably his mouth) on it.

Flint looks down at him, eyes half-lidded with lust and a little glazed from alcohol. “This was your idea,” he says, enunciating carefully like he does when he drinks, “and if it hurts, you have to tell me to stop. You've a bad habit of hiding your pain from me.”

“I’ll tell you, I'll scream bloody murder and throw you off me, I promise,” Silver says in a rush, feeling his whole body tremble with pent-up lust.

Flint closes his thumb and index finger around the delicate hoop and gives it a gentle, experimental tug. Silver cries out, feeling pleasure hurtle through him, going straight to his cock. He feels a little twinge of pain, too, but is more than willing to ignore that. It doesn't take away from the pleasure at all, and if he lets himself think too much about it, he might decide the pain actually adds to it.

“Again,” Silver gasps, tipping his head back and baring his throat to Flint. “Please, more, _again_.”

“No,” Flint says, shaking his head and leaning down to kiss along Silver’s neck, his mouth scorching hot on Silver’s already overheated skin. “Can’t risk it. Wouldn't be prudent,” he mumbles, then licks a broad stripe across the hollow of Silver’s throat.

“You're an utter fucking cocktease,” Silver groans, aggravated, even as Flint slides down his body and pulls his trousers open to take him in hand.

“Ah, am I?” Flint purrs, then swallows Silver down.

Silver isn't aware of much of anything after that, just the overwhelming wet heat of Flint’s mouth on him and his fingers curled tight in Flint’s soft hair. Dimly, as he gets closer and closer to coming, he feels one of Flint’s hands travel up his body to the left side of his chest, searching.

As soon as his fingers find the ring and tug on it again, Silver comes so hard he sees stars.

 

\---

 

Finally, after another month or so, Silver thinks he qualifies as completely healed. There's no pain at all in the piercing anymore, but being fully healed has brought about an interesting development.

Turns out he is, indeed, much more sensitive on that side of his chest than he used to be.

This is why he finds it so difficult to wear clothes, or shirts specifically, much to Flint’s chagrin. He still gets fully dressed when they're going out somewhere, of course, but inside the house or working outdoors on their property he almost never has a shirt on. Flint tries to tell him it's improper for him to go about half-naked all the time, but Silver successfully argues that it would be _much_ more improper for him to go about in varying states of arousal all the time, so half-naked it is.

Silver is in the kitchen one evening after supper, pouring them each a delicate little glass of port, when he hears Flint come in from the sitting room and a moment later feels strong, freckled arms circle his waist, pressing warmly against his bare skin.

“Mm, hello there,” Silver says, feeling a shiver go through him. He sets the bottle of port down carefully, leaning back against Flint.

“You ought to wear a shirt, you know. You're a distraction,” Flint purrs in his ear, his voice low and rumbling in a way that always gets Silver’s blood up.

“I'm a distraction, really? Says the man who came in here just to put his hands all over me while I'm trying to do something nice for us,” Silver says, shifting his hips to press his arse against Flint’s front.

“You are fully aware of how fucking good you look this way, don't play innocent with me,” Flint chastises him lightly, one hand slowly creeping up Silver’s side toward his chest. “I remember when you and I were both younger men, how you used to stick your arse out at me and find excuses to take your shirt off where I'd have to look at you,” he says, his other hand coming up to push Silver’s hair off his neck so he can bite down behind his ear.

“I wasn't subtle,” Silver agrees, his breath hitching as he feels Flint’s teeth on his skin, the combined pain and pleasure making him want more. “I thought I was. Like poor Claude across the road thinks he's being subtle with me.”

“You tease that poor boy any further and I swear he'll explode from the frustration of it all,” Flint says, his fingers finding Silver’s piercing at last and starting to play with the hoop, idly turning it back and forth.

“Ahh,” Silver says, because he tends to go incoherent when Flint does that. It's like the sheer pleasure of it drives out any rational thought Silver might've had.

“You ought to have some sympathy for him,” Flint continues evenly, as though he's oblivious to how he's working Silver up. “You remember what it was like to be overwhelmingly attracted to a handsome older man, ready and waiting for him to submit to your charms and fuck the living daylights out of you.”

“Still am,” Silver pants with a little grin, pressing back harder against Flint.

“But you're so subtle about it,” Flint deadpans, then turns Silver around in his arms to face him. He leans down to kiss him, and Silver fights the urge to just throw himself bodily at Flint, tackle him to the floor and drive him crazy. If it were up to Silver, they'd probably end up fucking on the floor at least half the time.

“Please,” Silver murmurs instead of acting on his wild impulses, reaching down between them to rub Flint’s cock through his trousers.

“I suppose, since you asked so nicely,” Flint says in his ear. He gathers Silver up in his arms and half-carries him to the closest soft surface, which turns out to be the overstuffed chaise lounge in the sitting room. Silver usually doesn't enjoy it when people try to help him get around (he's been missing his leg for about half his life; he can manage just fine on his own), but Flint is different. Flint could pick Silver up like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold and Silver would like as not enjoy it, depending on his mood.

Silver finds himself stretched out on his front on the chaise lounge a few moments later, Flint already working quickly to divest him of his trousers and breeches, then get his own open just enough to pull himself out. Something about Flint still being fully clothed while Silver is naked ratchets up Silver’s desire that much more.

“Here,” Silver says, groping underneath the chaise lounge for the vial of oil he knows he's got stashed there for occasions like this. He holds it out blindly to Flint, eager.

“Clever boy,” Flint says as he takes it, and the tone of his voice makes goosebumps rise on Silver’s bare skin. Silver hears the vial being opened and seconds later feels Flint’s slick fingers starting to tease him open. 

“Yes,” Silver breathes, folding his arms and burying his face in them, pressing back against Flint to get more, deeper. He had known the touch of man and woman both long before he met Flint, but he's found since that Flint is in a league of his own with what he can do to Silver’s body and how skillfully he does it. “More,” he says, aiming for a demanding growl but hearing his own voice come out instead as a needy whine.

Flint chuckles softly and picks up the pace, apparently as eager to have Silver as Silver is to be had. Finally, after what feels to Silver like an eternity, he eases his fingers out and the next thing Silver feels is the blunt head of his cock pressing into him.

“Fuck,” Silver gasps, pressing back against him and gripping the chaise lounge, trying to keep himself grounded. He grits his teeth, bracing himself on his hands and pushing back until he feels Flint sink all the way into him.

“John,” Flint breathes from behind him, tangling one hand in his hair and wrapping the other arm around his chest, pulling Silver back hard as he thrusts forward. There's barely enough room for the two of them on the chaise lounge but Silver knows from experience that they can accomplish pretty much anything when they're both this determined.

“Please, James,” Silver groans, quickly finding his rhythm and pushing back to meet Flint thrust for thrust. Flint’s fingers grasp the ring in Silver’s chest and he pulls and twists it, torturing Silver’s over sensitive flesh. “Ah, _god_ , more, don't stop,” Silver says, feeling himself blush at the sound of his own voice begging and pleading like that. No matter how many times it happens, he always gets a touch embarrassed at how easy it is for Flint to make him beg for it.

“I won't, I won't stop,” Flint assures him breathlessly, using one hand to pull Silver’s head back by his hair while the other keeps teasing his nipple. “You’re so good, love, so fucking good,” he grits out, his thrusts getting harder and faster, grinding deep into Silver. He's started rubbing over that pleasurable spot inside him, and Silver feels himself slowly losing his grip on sanity. How can a man be expected to keep himself sane when it feels like his very body is about to fly to pieces?

Between the effusive praise and the way Flint is so skillfully working him over, Silver knows he won't last much longer. He remembers dimly that Flint only recently had this chaise lounge reupholstered, owing to a prior incident remarkably similar to this one. The polite thing to do would be to warn Flint of his imminent orgasm, but before he can it's too late, it's upon him.

“James-- god-- fuck!” is all Silver manages to say before he's coming, making a mess of himself and the upholstery beneath him. He thinks he could live to a hundred and never get tired of the feeling of coming hard in Flint’s arms. He groans helplessly and rides it out, shuddering through an impressive series of aftershocks as he feels Flint coming inside him, growling a curse under his breath.

Flint slumps forward and Silver can feel Flint’s shirt sticking to his bare back, Flint’s trousers chafing against the back of his right leg and what remains of his left. It shouldn't feel good, but it does. “I should really _think_ before deciding to fuck you on this thing yet again,” Flint says, and Silver feels a pleasant wave of smugness at how satisfied he sounds.

“Mm. You'll just have to get it reupholstered again. And again, and again,” Silver says, then makes a little noise of loss when Flint pulls out of him.

Later, after they've cleaned up and retired to bed, Silver’s head resting on Flint’s stomach while Flint tries to read a book despite Silver’s near-constant interruptions, Silver has a brilliant thought.

“Do you think Mad Max is still in town?” he asks, reaching up to hook one tattooed finger over the top of Flint’s book and pull it down so he can see his (bemused) face and look into his eyes.

“Probably not. Why? Decided to get this side done, too?” Flint asks, putting the book gently aside and tweaking Silver’s right nipple, making him squirm.

“No no, one is quite enough,” Silver says, smacking Flint’s hand away. “I was thinking perhaps we could engineer a way for him to meet Claude. I think they'd get along very well.”

“You do, of course, remember what happened the last time you tried playing matchmaker,” Flint says, reaching out to take one of Silver’s curls in hand and twist it idly around his fingers.

“Yes, I remember,” Silver says, feeling a little put out that Flint felt like he had to remind him of that epic failure.

“You remember how--”

“Yes, James, I said I remember. She turned out to not like men after all and he felt so horribly rejected he joined the priesthood. I _remember_ ,” Silver says heatedly, then pulls his lower lip between his teeth, chewing on it in thought. “But I think this time it could work. We already know Claude prefers an older man who has tattoos and lives dangerously,” he says, grinning cheekily up at Flint.

“If you say so,” Flint says, sounding unconvinced but amused. He leans down to kiss Silver gently, then extinguishes the candle on his nightstand and stretches out in bed, still idly playing with Silver’s curls and humming happily when he finds a gray one scattered here and there in the near-black of the rest of Silver’s mane of hair.

“It’ll work this time, you'll see,” Silver says, feeling lulled to sleep by Flint’s gentle hands combing through his hair. “They’ll get on famously and Claude will forget all about me,” he says, and the last thing he sees before falling asleep is the gleam of Flint’s indulgent smile in the darkness.

 

\---

 

The next morning they take their tea on the front porch, Silver having reluctantly consented to wearing a loose light blue shirt despite the already oppressive heat of the day, Junior dozing at their feet.

Silver is about to remark on Junior’s impressive snoring when he sees two familiar figures coming down the road from town together. At first he can't quite believe what he's seeing, so he turns to Flint for confirmation. “Is that...?” he asks.

“It is, but I can't imagine how. That can't possibly be your doing,” Flint says, sounding just as dumbfounded as Silver feels.

“I wish I could take credit for it, but no, that somehow happened even without any input from me,” Silver says.

He watches as none other than Mad Max and Claude walk up the road together towards Claude’s family’s home, walking very close to each other but not quite touching. Claude has his hands clasped behind his back while Max has his thumbs hooked in his front pockets, both of them grinning like they share a grand secret.

“Now that is not subtle,” Flint mutters to Silver, making him snort despite himself.

“Not at all,” Silver agrees. He watches as Claude pauses at his gate, turning to beam at Max. They both linger, looking like they can't bear to part even for a short while. Max leans in to say something in Claude’s ear, and by the way Claude flushes, Silver is certain Max didn't just bid him a straightforward goodbye. They look at each other for another long moment before Claude reluctantly goes inside his yard and Max turns to walk back in the direction he came from, whistling a jaunty tune. He doesn't even notice Silver and Flint across the way, too caught up in his own happiness.

“Fuck me if you weren't exactly right,” Flint says, mirth shining in his green eyes as he looks fondly over at Silver.

“See? I told you they'd get along _very_ well,” Silver says, a smug little smirk on his face. He'll be lording that one over Flint for some time, he's sure of it.


End file.
